


Bordertown

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin discovers the city between worlds known as Bordertown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bordertown

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a comment made by Althea. Bordertown is a shared-world series of books which I highly recommend (Emma Bull's Finder is one of my favorites). AU.
> 
> This fic is incomplete and likely to remain so. It borrows a couple of characters from the Bordertown books without permission.

I.

Bordertown. He's finally here. It took him long enough, what with the walking and the rides he had to hitch. It doesn't matter, though, none of it matters now, because he's here to start over, to make a new life for himself.

He settles his backpack on his shoulders, duffel bag bumping heavily against his side. Someone suggested a hotel, back at the last truck stop -- a hundred miles or so ago -- and he has the name, the street, committed to memory. It takes him a few hours, but a diminutive Oriental lady finally gives him good directions, and he gets a dingy room with a view of a dirty alley.

He finds it all intensely exciting. There was never anything like this where he came from. Bordertown does not disappoint. Fairy dust glitters in graffiti on brick walls. Elves stride down the street, equally beautiful in elegant, otherworldly attire or leather and grunge. Everything is touched by magic, even the ordinary machines that work only some of the time.

He puts on his own leather to go out -- a jacket, studded with silver, decorated with rings and chains. Jeans -- faded, worn, comfortable -- and an old t-shirt advertising a motorcycle shop where he briefly worked in Memphis -- and of course his leather boots, the big clunky ones. He feels cool, with glitter in his hair, sparkling off the bright curls, and the feeling lasts until he hits the street. Then he's turned back into the gawping new arrival.

Someone with the face of a wolf -- and the pelt of one, as well -- strides by. A tall elvin girl sweeps past, remotely beautiful but somehow sad. A group of young men -- his age, maybe a little older -- move towards him, some carelessly walking on the street; a motorcycle swerves neatly around them, and they laugh after it. It's enough to make his heart ache with happiness.

* * *

II.

When he awakens, he's groggy, the world spinning around him. He blinks, winces, his vision doubling.

"Y'okay, kid?" a voice asks.

He tries to blink past the pain -- a stabbing headache, accompanied by rolling nausea -- and sees a dark shape hovering over him. His eyes begin to adjust. He's in an alleyway, which is why it's so dark, and there's a man looking down at him. Dark eyes watch him, a flicker of concern showing behind the apathetic sheen.

He sees the round features, thinks that the man's human, then catches sight of sharp ears below spiky black hair. Halfie? he wonders.

"Good, you're awake," the man says. "Come on, get up."

"Huh?" he says, but manages to struggle to his feet with the halfie's help. He's taller than the guy, who nonetheless seems older by far despite the goatee and funky clothes.

"Where do you live?" the halfie asks.

"Hotel on Ivy," he replies.

The halfie snorts. "That's too far for you to walk in your condition. You new in town?" he asks amiably, tugging the young man's arm over his shoulder.

He goes with it, his head pounding. "Yeah."

"What's your name, kid?"

"Justin," he says.

"Justin," the halfie echoes, as they make their way out of the alley, splashing through puddles. "You can call me Christopher Robin. Chris, if you like."

"Okay." Justin shuffles along, trying to remember what events led to him waking up in an alley with a half-elf watching him.

"You did something pretty stupid back there," Chris says almost conversationally.

"What?"

"Picking a fight with Bloods."

"I -- I don't--"

"It'll come back to you," Chris says, not unkindly. He looks up at Justin, dark eyes glittering, and Justin gets an impression of mischief and excitement.

"Are -- are you..."

"Elf? Only half, I'm afraid. Not so exciting as all that. Although you obviously believe so, so I shan't disabuse you further of the notion. Here we are!"

Justin is half in love already.

* * *

III.

Joey doesn't even blink at the strange human in the living room.

"Hey, Chris," he says, tossing his leather duster at the nearest chair. "C around?"

Chris gives Joey a scowl, hitching a thumb at the lanky kid, glitter in his curls and a nasty bruise on his forehead, who's laying asleep on the battered couch. "Keep it down," he hisses.

"Picking up strays again, huh?" Joey gives Chris a fond smile, his eyes raking over the human. "Where'd you find this one?"

"Alley down on Ho Street. Bloods were picking on him."

"Looks like they picked a little too much. He gonna be okay?"

"He will be. I'm gonna take him over to Doc's in the morning, but he's sleepin' right now, not unconscious, so I think he'll be all right."

"Good. Then you're taking him back to wherever you found him, right?"

Chris gives Joey one of those injured little-boy looks, and Joey rolls his eyes. The kid is new to Bordertown: it's obvious, the wet-behind-the-ears look, the clothes that scream with the need to impress, to be seen. He wants a name here, that's apparent. Probably ran away from home or something. Joey's seen it before, a million times.

Joey just rolls his eyes, now, rubs a fond hand over Chris's hair. "Where's C?" he asks again. Chris points upward, wordlessly, and Joey grabs his coat and climbs up the narrow stairs, his big boots navigating the thin risers with ease.

The second floor of the tiny brownstone is where their bedrooms are. Joey heads to the back of the house, knowing that JC will be one of two places: the bedroom, asleep, or on the roof, writing. It's a beautiful night, rare warm and clear, and Joey isn't even a little surprised when he sees the bedroom empty, window open. He hangs his coat up, then climbs out the window, up the rattling fire-escape, to the roof.

"Hey," he says, addressing the form hunched over in a battered easy chair.

JC looks up, his eyes wide and sparkling as the sky above. "Joe," he smiles, and Joey comes over, kneels by the chair. He slides a hand into JC's hair, strands long and silken-soft over his rough fingers, and pulls JC down for a kiss.

"Thought I'd find you up here," Joey murmurs, smiling. "Got the Muse on?"

"Yeah," JC replies, ducking his head. "Couldn't sleep. How was work?"

Joey shrugs. Work -- he's a bouncer at the Dancing Ferret, most nights -- isn't something to boast about, but at least he can contribute, and that's all he really cares about. "It was work," he says. "Slow night, so. Didn't have any problems."

That's rare, and a good thing. "Do you want to, um. We could go downstairs." JC's smile is slow, sultry.

"We could stay up here," Joey grins.

As he tugs JC down to the rooftop, his body a blanket for JC's skinny limbs, he murmurs, "Chris brought someone home."

"I saw," JC says, sighing. "He'll be out of here soon enough."

"I don't think so," Joey says, and that's it for talking for a while.

* * *

IV.

"Who's the kid?" Lance says, making Chris jump.

"Fuck, Bass, don't _do_ that," Chris hisses, and Lance laughs, reclining comfortably in Chris's favorite chair. Lance is always quiet, and that bothers Chris, because Chris is no good at the stealthiness that is second nature to Lance.

Then again, Lance is full elf. That might have something to do with it. Chris generally tries to deny that that bothers him, too.

"So who's the kid?"

"His name's Justin." Chris keeps his voice low, his hand moving slowly over soft, glittering curls. "He's..."

"--new in town, yeah. Oh, don't look at me like that; you can tell just by looking at him. You want to keep him, don't you?"

Chris gives Lance a pointed glare. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

Lance smirks silently. Chris looks back at the boy, stirring now on the couch. "You're waking him up," Chris murmurs.

"He's sleepin' in your room," Lance says, and gets up.

"Hey--" When Chris turns around to protest, Lance is gone, and he curses, even as he hears Justin mumble something incoherent.

"Where'm I?" Justin says quietly, forcing his eyes open. Chris smiles at him, quirking a helpless grin.

"Home," Chris replies.

* * *

V.

In the morning, Chris goes back to the hotel on Ivy and checks Justin out, brings his clothes and things back to the brownstone. He left JC to watch Justin, so he isn't surprised, on his return, to find JC curled up in the ratty armchair, sound asleep. Chris sighs and puts Justin's bags down.

"JC," he says, shaking his shoulder.

"'M awake," JC mumbles, groggy.

"JC, go back to bed." Chris manages to get JC to his feet, steers him to the stairs, and from there JC lurches upwards. A genuine smile of affection touches Chris's face before he turns back to Justin: he really does love these humans, though that love hardly extends to all humans.

But this one... Chris bends, kneels by the couch. Justin is stirring, and after a moment, his eyes fly open; pain is etched there, in shaking blue depths.

"OK," Chris says. "Come on, we're gonna go see the Doc."

"Don't want to." Justin looks about five, with his lower lip trembling, and Chris summons all his strength.

"Too bad. Come on, get up. When we get back, we'll figure out where you're sleeping."

"Really?" That perks him up, and he struggles up on his elbows. Chris pulls out a set of clean clothes for him, and when Justin has changed in the bathroom, they set off.

Kevin Richardson isn't a doctor, but in this neighborhood, he's known to nearly everyone as 'Doc'. His storefront is dusky, dim, but Chris has no trouble seeing in the gloom. Justin stumbles behind him, though, and Chris's hand tightens about a thin waist.

"Doc," Chris calls. There's a noise from the back, and shuffling; then Doc emerges, tall and pale, long black hair lank around his face. Justin recoils when he sees something glimmer, pearlescent on skin. He has the sense to stay quiet, though, for which Chris is grateful.

"Who's this?" Doc asks.

"He's new in town," Chris explains. "He got a bump on the head last night."

"Your name?"

Justin shivers -- Chris feels it through the papery skin of his palm -- but his voice is steady as he responds, "Justin Timberlake."

Doc makes a noise, turns. "Come with me," he grunts. Chris follows, tugging Justin with him, and they go into another equally-dim room. Doc lays Justin down on a wooden table, long capable fingers deft on Justin's forehead, tracing the shape of his skull, examining him. Justin's breathing is harsh and loud in the stillness. Chris wants to hold him.

Finally, Doc turns away, roots in a drawer, then presses a small glass bottle into Chris's hand. "These are for the pain and nausea. He should be fine. There is no concussion. Bring him to me if there is blood -- in the urine, or the vomit." Chris nods. "Payment?"

Chris fishes a foil square, a couple of inches across, from his pocket. Doc's nostrils flare. He nods, and Chris hands it over, then goes back to help Justin up from the table.

Outside, Justin blinks in the sunlight, dazed. Chris hands him a pill, and he dry-swallows it obediently. 'Dumb,' Chris thinks. 'Naive. Too trusting.'

"What did you give him?" Justin asks.

Chris chuckles. "Chocolate." Justin arches a dubious eyebrow, and Chris grins. "You're not outside anymore, kid. Let's go get you settled in, shall we?"

"You're serious? I can stay with you." When Chris nods, Justin's face closes up, goes wary. "What do you want?"

Chris sighs. "Hard as it may be to believe, nothing. I mean, you'll want to get a job, pay for your food and whatever--"

"You... don't. I mean." The kid stutters, freezing, and Chris draws him into the alcove of a store's entrance, out of the busy sidewalk. Justin has gone red; his eyes won't meet Chris's.

"I don't want what, kid?"

"M-me."

Chris isn't sure whether Justin is embarrassed because he wanted Chris to want him, or if it's because he thought he'd be paying his way in the house with his body. He speaks in a voice barely louder than a whisper, his fingers gentle on Justin's bony elbow. "Justin," he says. Justin catches his lower lip in his teeth, translucent lids hooding his eyes. "That's not what I'm suggesting."

Justin's breath hitches. Chris folds his arms around the kid, feeling even more now like he's comforting a six-foot-tall five-year-old as Justin's hot smooth cheek presses to his shoulder. "It's okay, kid," Chris murmurs, gruffly. "Look, let's go get you settled in."

* * *

VI.

"So what do you do, kid?" Joey asks over dinner. They're out at AJ's cafe, since a recent lack of funds means that there isn't enough food even for Joey to conjure up a meal.

Justin, squeezed into the booth between Chris and Lance, swallows hastily. "I, uh-- well, I was fixing bikes before I came out here. Motorcycles," he clarifies quickly.

"Not gonna get much call for that," Chris observes and steals a fry from Joey's plate. Joey swats the halfie's hand. "Anything else?"

Justin drops his eyes and mumbles something. Chris pokes him sharply in the side; he yelps.

"You sing?" Lance says, one fine eyebrow arched; he clearly heard what was too low for the others to catch. Justin's cheeks go scarlet, but he nods.

"I. Yeah. Play guitar, too, but -- I had to sell my acoustic to get here. So." He busies himself with finishing his burger, and thus fails to notice the speculative looks passing between Joey and JC.

"And what, pray tell, are you plotting?" Chris says, reaching unrepentantly for another fry.

JC musters an innocent smile and takes a gulp of his root beer, and Joey shrugs. "I'm just thinking we could probably use another bouncer at the Ferret. You any good in a fight?"

"Well--" Justin begins, and a wave of nausea rolls over him as he remembers blond hair, blood, pointed ears. "A little," he says, softly, feeling Chris's gaze on him.

"I'll talk to Farrel," Joey promises. "You could come down tonight, check it out."

"Sure," Justin agrees. He's still feeling a little overwhelmed, not at all sure why these people are being so nice to him. He pushes a fork at his hash browns, which suddenly smell greasy and unappetizing. He's envisioning scenarios of being lured into a false sense of comfort, and then-- But they could have taken advantage of him when he was unconscious, he reasons. And they don't exactly look like a threatening crew; Joey reminds him of a teddy bear, and JC -- well, he seems light, but Justin gets the feeling that it's a deceptive fragility.

The one he's really leery of, though, is Lance. There's something fey about him -- beyond the obvious, sea-green eyes and tapered ears -- something that speaks of subtle, deep power. Justin doesn't know much about Bordertown, but he knows that elves aren't to be trifled with, and that those who live there generally don't choose to be there. Unlike most of its inhabitants, who were either born and raised in the city straddling two worlds, or those like him who made the effort to find it. Justin's starting to realize, though, that it takes a certain amount of temerity to survive in this place, and he's starting to wonder if he has it.

"Hey!" he yelps, when Chris smacks his arm.

"We're leaving," Chris says. "Come on. You can do your deep thinking while you unpack."

* * *

VII.

Chris shows him where he can put his clothes -- in a drawer of the battered dresser where Chris keeps his own things -- and then disappears, presumably to give Justin a little time to get comfortable. Justin is relieved, sharply so, to see that there are two beds in the room, both singles, one pushed under the window and the other along the opposite wall. He supposes he's not the first stray they've taken in, and that makes him wonder how they all came to live in this place.

"You'll probably want to take a shower," a low voice says. Justin jumps, breath rattling in his throat, and whips around; Lance is sitting on the bed by the window, which is wide open to let in the last of the sunlight. "Get the stuff out of your hair and everything."

"Yeah," Justin says, leaning hard on the dresser. "That'd be cool."

Lance stands, slowly, every movement tranquil and lithe and somehow golden-sleek, reminding Justin of rich honey. He crosses to stand next to Justin, a hand on the open dresser drawer, the t-shirts and jeans piled haphazardly inside. "Chris is a good guy," he says, and his voice hasn't changed at all but Justin feels something cold slither through him. "He brought you here because he likes to take care of people. Don't abuse that."

"I w-won't," Justin says defensively. "I wouldn't."

Lance's eyes are steady on Justin's. Justin has the impression of cool leaves, a shady glen deep in a forest. "I know," he says. "And I'm not trying to warn you, or threaten you, or anything like that. He's done you a favor, is all: you'll want to think about repaying it sometime."

Justin's still absorbing that when he blinks and realizes Lance is gone. He swears and closes the dresser drawer.

* * *

VIII.

Nothing's what he expected. This is starting to become his mantra, now: whatever he thought Bordertown would be like, it's nothing like this. For one thing, it's real -- dark, gritty, with faces as pretty and ugly as those back home, some smiling at him, some sneering, some offering challenge and some offering more. He shrugs closer into Chris's jacket and doesn't meet the looks of those he passes. He supposes it looks odd enough that he's wearing a green camoflage jacket decorated with feathers, beads, and braids. No help for it, though -- his own leather jacket, the one he's had for five years now, is well and truly gone, so when Chris offered his own after Justin realized it was gone, Justin wasn't about to turn down the generous offer.

It was the Bloods that took it, Justin's sure of it. He can't get the eyes of the leader out of his head. Blue, very blue, and hair whiter than snow falling loosely into his eyes. The Bloods are full elves, Chris said, and so is Lance -- but Lance's hair is blond. Justin supposes he must dye it. Chris is turning out to be a helpful font of information, and Justin's really starting to be glad that it was Chris who found him and not someone else who might have slit his throat casually.

When he voices that, a little caustic, Chris chuckles. "Bordertown's not all that terrible, my friend. No better, no worse than anyplace else you might live. Only difference is, people can hurt themselves or each other with different types of weapons."

"Magic, you mean," Justin says. He glances up ahead; JC and Joey are walking together, shoulders bumping, Lance close behind them. Chris shrugs.

"Magic, yeah. But magic isn't all that special. It helps sometimes, and other times it's a bloody nuisance. Nothing's reliable here. You have to get used to that. Sometimes an engine will run, t'other times you need a spellbox to make your car go. Here we are!" Chris stops abruptly at a set of double doors; originally, they must have been painted black, but since that time artists have left their mark in the form of graffiti, detailed caricatures, and some crude scrawlings of markings that don't look like any writing Justin's ever seen before. Above the doors, the words "The Dancing Ferret" glow in beautifully carved wood. Justin glances at Chris again, smiling now. The music pounding from within pulses into Justin's blood, sets him alight, and he can't wait to get out on the floor.

"Cat's Laughing's playing tonight, you're in for a fine treat," Chris assures him, and they head inside, a grinning Joey holding the door for them.

Skirls of wild, unearthly music dance around Justin and seem to pull him out to the floor. He loses track of the others almost immediately and doesn't care. Though the club is packed, there's just enough room for him to shimmy his hips between other dancers, men, women, elves and half-elves, all of them sliding and shaking to the same smooth rhythm. A glance up to the stage tells Justin that the band is having as much fun as, if not more than, their audience, and he closes his eyes and loses himself in the music.

It could be five minutes or an hour later when he feels Joey's hand on his arm, dragging him from the main floor. "Come on, meet Farrel," he shouts in Justin's ear, and Justin nods, obediently follows. It's hard to relax when he's still strumming with energy and the music, undimmed, seems to call him back to dance; he tries to draw breath, aware that he needs to be collected for what he hopes is a job interview.

Farrel Din, the Ferret's owner, is in a booth, drinking a beer and going over paperwork. The introductions are brief; Joey's relaxed and easy with the owner, which sets Justin at ease as well. "You look tough," Farrel says, and Justin shrugs.

"I can hold my own." Farrel points to Justin's face and Justin touches his forehead, realizes he still has a bruise blooming there. "Uh, this--"

"Bloods got him," Joey puts in. "Whole gang jumped him, it wasn't a fair fight."

"Mmm." Farrel takes a slug of beer and nods. "You'll start tomorrow night. Joe'll show you the ropes. Any problems, you come see me. We'll talk pay then, sound good?"

Startled, Justin nods, and stands to shake the hand Farrel offers.

"Get out of here, enjoy the band. Last night you get to have fun," he says, and grins. Justin nods back with a smile of his own, and then he and Joey are heading back toward the bar.

Justin can't help giving Joey an incredulous look. "That was too easy," he says.

"I've worked here three years," Joey grins. "It's cool, man, you'll be fine." Then they're at the bar and Joey yells for beer, and Chris is thumping his back in congratulations.

There's more dancing, and more drinking, and finally the band calls it quits and the bartenders and waitresses start shouting that it's last call. Joey starts helping clean up the bottles and empties, so Justin pitches in, too -- no time like the present to start learning the job. There are others, as well, though Justin doesn't remember names right now. Joey's introduced him to them all, but it's been so loud and he's had one too many beers. He'll do better tomorrow, he promises himself.

One guy catches his eye, though, for a couple of reasons. He's not one of the people Joey introduced him to earlier, for one thing, but in spite of that he's helping clear the beer bottles into boxes for recycling. For another, he's been hanging around a guy with a face like a wolf, a face that Justin's pretty sure is not a mask.

"Who's that dude?" he asks Joey, quietly, at an opportune moment, watching the dark-haired guy laugh at something the wolf-faced man is writing on a pad of paper. "He doesn't even work here, why's he helping out?"

"Oh, that's Orient," Joey replies as he hefts another crate of bottles onto a stack. "Everyone around here knows him, and he practically works here, he's here so much. Used to hang around with this cool elf chick, Tick-Tick." Joey's face momentarily clouds and Justin makes a mental note to ask what happened later. "Anyway, that's Wolfboy with him. And yeah, that's really him, it's not a mask, so don't ask about it. But Orient is--"

"He's not, like, Asian, though," Justin interrupts, and is rewarded for it with a glare.

"No, he's not. He finds things. He's got this talent, he's -- you ask him where something is and he points the way. You gotta know what it is you're looking for, though, like your favorite pair of shoes or a wrench you used to fix your bike with-- hey! What the fuck!" Joey stops in the middle of loading another crate, because Justin has stopped listening to him and in fact isn't even there anymore. He's heading across to where Orient and Wolfboy are talking.

Shit, Joey thinks, and starts after him. Justin's too new around here, he's going to start a goddamn international incident. He makes it just in time to hear the tail end of Justin's question.

"...can you find my leather jacket?"


End file.
